Ever since Alexander McQueen moved his catwalk shows from London to Paris six years ago, the accepted wisdom has been that London fashion week, the lovable-mongrel underdog of the international fashion scene, would rise again when the new McQueen appeared on the scene.

As it turned out, the wait for this longed-for catwalk messiah was a red herring. London has risen again: this fashion week, which ends today, was quite possibly my favourite ever. Not because of one jaw-dropping wonderkid who came out of nowhere and wiped the floor with everybody else, but a whole clutch of things: promising newcomers finding their feet at the same time; the return of two catwalk favourites who have proved that young British brands can make it internationally; the loyalty of the old guard to the London scene; and a dash of excitement in the form of catwalk high-jinks and glam parties.

I must start with Prince jumping up from the front row and singing at Matthew Williamson, because frankly I have talked of little else in the two days since; it was the sort of catwalk moment that we haven't had in London for a while. Williamson burst onto the scene a decade ago when, as an unknown, he persuaded Kate Moss, Jade Jagger and Helena Christensen to model in his first show. His tenth anniversary this week would inevitably remind the London audience - many of whom were there a decade ago - of the excitement of that day. Getting Prince to hide in the front row and then sing live was a neat way of signalling that the next decade could hold as much promise as the last.

Williamson, who like Luella Bartley was making a guest appearance in London this season, said after the show that he tried to shrug off the anniversary pressure and "just do something that was really me" . It helped Williamson that the luxe-hippy look he pioneered is enjoying a renaissance under the patronage of Parisian hipsters Balenciaga, and that London's Boombox clubbers are reviving the palette of hot pink, satsuma and lime that he loves. Nothing wrong with that; you need a bit of luck in this game. The scorched-effect silk mini dresses, and raw linens with kelim-style beading, looked as desirable for summer 2008 as they did in 1997. Both Williamson and Bartley made a compelling case for the notion that building a fashion brand needn't mean lobotomising creativity and filling the gap with vacuous logos and focus-grouped handbags. Luella was as bouncy as ever: cocktail dresses you could wear clubbing, and neon perspex poppy hairgrips which will lure the younger fashionistas into her new Mayfair store.

The buzz around his name ensured that Giles Deacon's show in Shoreditch was packed sardine-tight. His non-appearance at the previous night's white tie V&A gala, held to open the museum's new exhibition of classic couture, suggested he was feeling the pressure, but he rose to the occasion with dresses which managed to look both delicate and hot-blooded, like ballerina costumes for a particularly passionate pas de deux. Hats appliqued with flowers made from swimcap rubber, dresses fringed with thousands of elastic bands, and cocktail dresses with their corset boning sewn onto the outside dressed up a collection based around a 1950s silhouette: cute off-the-shoulder neckline, nipped waist, full skirt.

Sharing the spotlight with Deacon this week was Christopher Kane, the young Glaswegian with the vogueish Versace-meets-Hoxton aesthetic. This season he took Prisoner Cell Block H and Stephen King horror movies as his inspiration, an uncompromising start which produced an equally uncompromising collection. I'm not quite sure I - or, more to the point, the wealthy department store customers Kane needs - are ready for snow-washed denim bra tops or snake-print ra-ra dresses, but I love that he thinks we are. Kane is 25: he has plenty of time to grow up, why rush it? The buyers jumped, instead, on the new collection by Marios Schwab, who stepped out of Kane's shadow with dresses that occupied the golden territory where avant-garde meets commercial. Before the Grecian-pleated silk cocktail dress overlaid with a fine, skeletal web of bone-white beads had even got to the end of the catwalk, I was making a mental note to save up for it.

My shopping list got longer at Roksanda Ilincic, as it always does. Her dresses have a staggering elegance which seems to come from another era, yet is utterly modern at the same time. Feather puff jackets, outsized corsages and bra tops (again - perhaps Kane is right after all) were the showpieces, but the real beauty is in Ilincic's brilliant eye for colour, the soft shape of her dresses and the raw edges which highlight the rich weight of the fabrics. Along with Ilincic, Duro Olowu convinced me, at least, that the midi length can actually be sexy. Olowu's trademark African prints were mixed with leopardprint and with sketchy roses this season. The green-and-cream graphic print silk dress, gathered under the bottom in a semi-bustle shape, was another one for my by now frighteningly lengthy wishlist. At Jonathan Saunders, I had to be very strict with myself, and admire the new sophistication of the dresses - which this season have been honed in shape whilst retaining their striking bespoke prints - without mentally trying them on.

There was way too much talent amongst the new kids on the block to list them all here. To namecheck three: Louise Goldin's Kylie-esque hoods and computer-graphic snakeprints had a fabulous Alaia-on-acid mix of accomplishment and energy. Noki House of Sustainability was a fitting finale to three impressive shows under the Fashion East banner, lighting up a rainy afternoon in Brick Lane with a carnival of eyelash extensions and dresses made out of shredded Iron Maiden tour T-shirts. Rodnik, designed by Richard Ascott and Philip Colbert, had tighter, shinier, brighter versions of the tailored dresses and cocktail shorts that were everywhere this week, showing that you can put a London edge on commercial trends.

Sometimes, at London fashion week, you can't face queueing in another draughty stairwell in a hard-to-find warehouse with lots of teenagers in facepaint to see a hot-tipped show. You want a nice sit down with a bottle of water on your seat, and possibly even a bit of cheese and a cracker in a practical greaseproof paper bag (thanks, Margaret Howell). Thankfully, London has its share of older and wiser designers. Paul Smith, who took David Hockney's trademark bright-coloured cricket sweaters as inspiration for a show which, as ever, combined tailoring with wit and a fabulous eye for colour, was the standout this week amongst the old guard, with excellent support from Amanda Wakeley's fabulous zip-up shift dresses, Betty Jackson's unbeatable way with butter-soft leather, and Margaret Howell's nonchalant rumpled-silk cocktail dresses.

Fashion moves fast; next season may not live up to the promise of this one. Matthew Williamson and Luella will both almost certainly be back in New York, although it is quite possible that another big name might appear to fill the gap. (Why, perhaps Marc Jacobs, who last week threatened to flounce out of New York after the poor reception to his late-night surrealist show, will come here. But he would be more likely to go to Paris - and is most likely of all, I suspect, to get over himself and stay in New York.) But the fact that this week's success was based not on one young maverick who might be in New York, Paris, Milan (or rehab) by February makes it more likely that the upturn will stick. A measured, quiet, unstarry revival: this week was a very British fashion moment. Jolly good show.